And the Leaves Sway in Silence
by sleep learning
Summary: The forest is cold and silent, but the fire is filled with bones


His hands were cold, falling in and out of numbness with a dull ache, as Roxas clawed at the shadows in front of his face. The leaves slapped and stung his cheeks, branches snapping back like the clashing teeth of a wild animal. Colder than his skin, and wet –though there had been no rain, at least, not while he was running through the forest.

And he had been running, for so long. Feet pounding on a bed of leaf litter, raising dust and disturbing mice. There had been birds too, scattering in disgruntled flight from the roots of trees as he ran by. Those trees; deceitful in their stillness, with roots that curled from the ground like angry snakes. Twisting, hidden under soft dirt and rotten wood, on more than one occasion he had tripped in his haste, hands splayed out underneath him, dirt in his mouth and hair.

Above him, the raucous laughter of crows and the crushing, papery shred of black wings.

At least the birds had made noise. Now, in the dark, the forest was silent save for his own heavy breathes and the disruption he made as he marched through the undergrowth. While there was still light, the sun had reached through holes in the canopy like tiny beacons of safety, spreading out like a pathway. As it faded with every hour, the boy grew more fearful, stumbling with desperation.

And then night had fallen like a smothering blanket and the world became muted.

No crying mice. No laughing birds. Not even the murmur of a cricket. The forest surely was bewitched, and the sun itself, magicked away for eternity.

And the night went on forever. Endless, cold and terrifying in its quietness.

But there were moments -as he tripped and scrambled- where between the trees he glimpsed a light. Flickering flames. Each time he saw it, a tiny butterfly of hope spread and fluttered in his chest. Perhaps someone was out there. A house maybe, with a stove, a bowl of soup and a bed.

No matter how far he ran, hands scratched and face bleeding, the light never grew larger. It remained a faint teasing streak in the dark green labyrinth.

_There is no hope._

His breath curled in a shimmering fog around his face, unseen as his eyes closed.

_I can't keep walking forever._

His legs trembled and he leant against a trunk for support, eyes shut tight as his chest rose fast and laboured in panic.

_I'm going to die, in this endless forest. _

His legs gave out and Roxas stumbled, falling forwards, sliding down a slope and into-

Warmth… Light.

His knees hit the dirt and he opened his eyes.

There was a fire, a bonfire. He watched, mesmerised as the flames rippled in a haze, surrounding darkened logs and flickering upwards. He tried to focus on a single moment, but the fire was impossibly fast, striking upwards like a lizard's tongue, smoke billowing into the night sky and obscuring even the strongest star.

"Is it cold out there?"

Roxas gasped, turning from the fire to see a man, whose hair rivalled the flames themselves. He sat, hunched on a rock, legs stretched like a spider. His leather coat black so that it blended with the forest behind him, enveloping the man in the very same darkness Roxas had been running from. His limbs seemed too long, too bent over and hunched, while under his skin the bones stretched taunt, alarming and eerie. Face turned down to the ground, the light of the fire danced along his skin, casting his eyes and cheeks in shadow, his features obscured. But what the boy could discern, were marks, black marks beginning at the hollow under his eyes. In the darkness they pulled down his face and seemed _alive_, like black tears.

Roxas sat in the dirt, staring at the stranger. He should have been thankful, for this must have been the man who created the fire. And yet, it was strange, for he could see no provisions, no clothes or food or shelter. No tracks leading to a home. No tracks at all; except for the ones he had made himself, moments ago when stumbling from the trees.

He had forgotten all about the question, until the man looked up for a response.

His eyes burned bright, as if he had stolen the stars from the sky. And they screamed with hunger, coiling pools of despair, greener than the apple of sin itself.

He watched Roxas. Watched as Roxas scrambled backwards, closer to the fire but unable to stop staring, his large blue eyes trapping the image of the flames in twin mirrors.

He lifted a branch from the ground, poking at the fire, seeming unbothered by the mute boy sitting in the dirt.

"Of course it is cold." He murmured. His voice low and gentle, rasping at the edges and suggesting something a little… _otherworldly_.

"It's always cold," he continued, as if to himself "they always say it is cold. Stumbling from between the trees."

Roxas watched, still unable to look away as the man nudged a pile of ash with his boot. The heat beside him was fading the longer he stared and his hands tensed and coiled in the dirt. The stranger's eyes were like a spell, calling and calling despite the fear winding in his chest.

"So many. Though less now then before. But every time, they come. It's the fire that draws them in."

Roxas licked his lips, cracked and peeling, the words surrounding him. He listened with acute yearning and attention, enthralled. And yet, if he had been asked to repeat, he would no doubt be left without speech, so engaged all thoughts were left behind in the forest.

"They tell me it's lonely, out there. Some talk about the trees, magicked trees. Sad. I wouldn't know. Others don't talk about the trees at all. Anything but the trees."

He fell silent, and Roxas leant forward, crawling on his knees and lips parted, waiting anxiously for the moment when the stranger would speak again.

A long silence fell over them, and unable to bear it any longer, Roxas spoke.

"What happened to them?"

The hungry eyes snapped towards him, and the breath fell from the boy's lungs.

Roxas crawled closer, looking up with large eyes, waiting captivated.

The stranger stared back, lips quivering as he leant towards the boy.

His gaze shifted pointedly towards the fire and Roxas followed, staring desperately for the answer.

Underneath the burning wood, protruded the blackened shaped of a skull.

Between another two logs, lay hidden a broken pelvis.

He turned back to the stranger, face closer than ever.

And the stranger stared back.

"I make them tell me their stories," he whispered, inching closer with widened eyes and stretching lips.

"Their beginnings. Memories, as little children. It goes on and on, year after year, and they tell me everything" Roxas leant forward, mimicking the way the stranger tilted his head, his hands in the dirt a mirror image of the stranger's stance.

"And their middle. Their entire lives… until their voices break inside their throats," his gaze dropped for a moment and the stranger's hands reached for Roxas, before swinging out wildly. The flames leapt higher with the motion and their faces coloured like wild daemons in the fire's shadow.

"And I take them. Take their words, their stories. Ends and middles and beginnings. Until there is nothing left." He dropped to a whisper and Roxas all but crawled into his lap, leaning so close he felt the air on his cheek as the stranger continued.

"They forget everything but the fire, eventually. Until they know nothing. Nothing but trees and fire and night," his eyes grew bigger, draining his face and screaming at Roxas. Starving and begging with stolen stars.

"Sometimes I make them dance, make them crawl and twist and entertain. I make them into great entertainers" the flames rippled again, shooting upwards as Roxas grabbed his arm. The stranger fell back onto the ground, the boy falling with him.

Roxas leant above him as the stranger stared into the darkness.

"They never last after that. The nothingness… It eats away at them. I try to keep them, but I get so hungry. And then, so lonely." Roxas murmured sounds of forgiveness above him, words obscured as he leant forward, lips brushing against the stranger's.

Their eyes met and Roxas waited, falling into green stars, so far from home, the forest or the fire.

The stranger's voice rasped out, hot breath between them and their lips collided as he spoke.

"They're in the fire. Always warm. All of them now, never lonely. And waiting. Your own little audience of devoted listeners. We've been waiting so long,"

So many voices, whispering. Like crying mice and the shredding paper wings of laughing birds. The trees waited in darkness around them, while the leaves swayed in silence.

"waiting for you"


End file.
